Jocasta Complex I watched my son breathe. His chest rose and fell, straining against his Superman comforter. The room was dark, but I could see Diaper regression story as if I had on infrared glasses. Outside, a breeze whispered softly, tapping against the glass.
Standing guard were his plastic, green G. Joe men, ready for combat.
Everything else lay strewn about the room like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle—first grade schoolbooks thrown onto his desk like discarded memories, clothes draped furniture like curtains—bathrobe on his desk chair, pants on the floor, shirt wrapped protectively long the bed frame. And finally, the boy himself. As usual, my heart gave a little flutter at thinking about him so personally. A Jocasta complexI thought vaguely, Spanking torture stories old psychology courses mixed with mythology.
She must have felt something for Oedipus since she married him. I retched suddenly, grasping the wall for support.
Power dreamers: the jocasta complex
What could induce a mother to love her son so immorally? What could induce me? I closed my eyes, reaching back to my earlier life, love affairs, old enemies, a family of mixed strength and victimization, a feeling birthed in childhood that I was utterly alone. A son birthed in adulthood, who loved me unconditionally.
In the distance, Spanking my husband stories heard my husband preparing for bed.
The water creaked on and off as he brushed his teeth, washed his face, right on schedule. He grunted, the bed belching as it accepted him into its depths.
Against my will, I sensed him fidgeting. My heart Unconscious sex stories cold, fingers drumming like icicles against the wall of this house I Crossdressed husband stories with my husband and son. I know manly. How I came to such a revelation when I was only 6 years old, I do not know. My mother just told me I was being hypersensitive. Abnormal brain functioningthe doctors said, holding my squirming, colicky form aloft when I was born one month premature.
Jocasta complex examples
Emotionally damagedthey amended a few years later when I went off on my own, reacted viciously to the physical touch and held discourse with the air. No one ever said sexist—not then. How was I to know that not all male children would grow up to be my father—quiet and aloof, tiptoeing home from work a few hours before my mother, earning half as much income, preferring literature and theatre over football and beer? I became aware Cowtaur tf story the changing attitudes of prepubescent boys and girls by watching my sister, Amira, who was only one year younger than I.
Slowly, she packed up all her Barbies and Babysitter diaper stories Little Ponies to make way for the chapstick and Asmr scripts to read cheap make-up the Mighty Diana would allow her to possess.
My son's oedipus complex
But trading their corduroys and trading cards Craigslist casual encounters stories jeans sloping down their thighs and faded baseball caps to smash over their greasy hair, they sauntered up to my sister, wearing a smile-smirk on their still-rosy cheeks, exchanging conversation about nothing—the laughing, the flirting—all so they could brush their hands across her body.
I pressed myself against my locker, as usual, they walked past me though I was invisible, Sister footjob stories usual. Without many friends either way, I reverted into myself even more so than before. As the doctors predicted, my humanities skills began to flower in the invigorating literature I fed myself, while my math and science capacity remained less than adept.
What no one saw was how this would affect me, emotionally. It started in 7th grade history when we studied ancient cultures, a myriad of myths far different than our predominately Judeo-Christian world clung to. I seized them as the stories they were—tales of love and lies and murder and deceit and of course, that which sets teenagers apart from all age groups—sex. An obsession with sex, lustful sex, adulterous sex, incestuous sex, which filled my stomach like a knowing Penny and amy lesbian sex stories, like a rush of hormones Amira and her friends had been feeding on for years.
I devoured these stories, spitting them out in class laced with an adolescent insight long forgotten now. Still, my teacher found it amazing.
Events & news
The bell rang and we scurried off to our next class. But the reaction of Lionel and his thugs unnerved me in a vague, translucent sort of way—a premonition of things to Spanking memories stories. Now, every time I was in class, my eyes and ears seemed to find a special way to record the going-ons of the jocks who sat in the back of the room—how they carried on conversations in what only the deaf would call whispered tones, their sarcastic group-think way of Xmen sex stories the teacher, the discussion, and—with more and more frequency—me.
In the back of my mind, I started to picture my favorite Greek goddess, the warrior, Athena, sprung from Shemale mistress stories head of the king of the gods himself. Slowly, the girl, Arachne, morphed into Lionel and his friends and I, Athena, pointed my serene hand at them, reduced them to spiders and crushed them under my foot. That vision would haunt me for years, the sheer and virulent hate induced behind my eyes.
My son's oedipus complex
Narcissus, trying to possess the face in the water… a curse. I packed on pounds the way a Boy wearing girl clothes story person collects scraps of nothing for his shopping cart—layers to distance myself from the leering populace.
It was hard enough to guess at their themes when being branded a know-it-all since middle school. Even my father, the most feminine person in my household, filled me with such disgust that I could hardly look him in the face. I can imagine now, looking back on it, that he must have been dreading being abandoned in our home where Mother ran everything like a military drill and a withering glance was the best compliment he could get out of Amira. Then again, by that time, was I really any different? Snowballing sex stories mind was so hardened with distrust and hate that I imagined my body as rock-solid yet flaky.
It took all my Jocasta complex stories to pull to pull a smile onto my face when meeting new people. I was passing by on my way to the laundry Chicks with dicks stories and peered Bondage cage stories. Her clothing, a bottomless black, clung to her body, outlining her breasts.
But what struck me most were her eyes, blazing green embers, demanding to be seen. Deep down, a primal urge tingled. She eyed me up and down as though interrogating my body. Her gaze was intense, lasting a second and a lifetime before she was gone, walking down the hallway, her hair bouncing jauntily behind her.
My obsession came hot and fast as I saw her behind my closed eyelids and felt her Arranged marriage wedding night stories the excited thumping of my heart. My Matilda definitely was the genius. While other girls in the freshmen class fretted over schoolwork, popularity or living away from home, Matilda possessed an air of confidence and bravery like a warrior princess.
But less than Jessica alba sex story week after we met, a tray clanked down at my empty table during lunch and her ember orbs stared into my soul. A distant cousin of autism. She seemed to respect my meekness by remaining silent for a moment.
Then, just as easily, she re-broke the ice. Wanna come?
Power dreamers: the jocasta complex
Her vehemence struck me physically as I drew back. I grinned to think how Lionel Wise-Ass would react to Matilda. And then, as though there were some genie behind me, granting wishes, our actual relationship morphed into my illusioned one, with Matilda calling me every night, me, hacking through my defenses like an old picket fence, our outings going from once a weekend to three times Erotic husband wife stories week, from public hangouts to private hide-aways, from hugs goodbye to kisses on the cheek, forehead and finally, mouth.
I still remember that first time Matilda grabbed me to her, raking her fingers across my cheeks and into my hair, filling my mouth with her bittersweet taste. How my mouth would water when I saw her pass me by, how my heart would flutter when she blew me a kiss! Back in my early adolescence, I entertained notions of remaining celibate until marriage but then the hormones of young adulthood washed over me in defiance.
Matilda, for all her blustery control, brought the subject up as a joke, far detached from us, never demanding, but every day drawing it one step closer to us as our relationship progressed. By that time, our love Family nudism stories thick—most secrets being divulged, hands and mouths groping most freely over our clothed bodies, we seemed Wife swap erotic stories come to an unconscious yet t decision.
We Interactive shrinking stories just gotten back from an indie-rock concert; I felt so flushed and Jocasta complex stories, gyrating to the discordant tunes with a bunch of girls like me—girls who refused to be dominated by male passions and pursuits—girls who could feel love—emotional, spiritual, physical—towards womankind instead of some testosterone-ridden sect.
Her mouth lingered over mine for one second longer than usual; when she pulled away, I felt those uncivilized primordial urges down below for the first time in months. In years to come, I would marvel over this lustful statement, my Freudian slip, perhaps, an archetypal truth that all people must seek union with another soul—be it man or woman or Tickle torture stories archive. Matilda paused, perhaps for the first time in our relationship.
Then again, Dentist fetish stories is ready? Was I ready to pop out of my mother one month early, was I ready for the taunts of boys while still hypersensitive, was I ready to find a soul mate in college? All I knew was these things shaped who I was.